Song of Songs
by HeCallsMeHisChild
Summary: An in-depth look at the book of Song of Songs. Rated M for mature sexual themes.
1. Chapter 1

He comes. She can hear his footsteps, muffled though they are. She hastily drops her trowel in the new-turned earth, afraid he will see her at her work. No, ashamed. She tries to wipe the stains from her patched skirt, but they will not come out.

Strong arms embrace her from behind, squeezing tears from her eyes. What did she ever do to deserve such a wonderful man? And he is above her! The King! And she is but a kitchen maid. Yet not one month ago he claimed her hand in marriage. Her heart swells with love and gratitude. She turns in his grasp and clings to him. She looks into his eyes, and he tenderly wipes her tears away.

She puts her mouth close to his ear and whispers, "Oh good sir, kiss me quickly, for the love you show me is sweeter than wine, and even your name smells sweet." Laughing, he obliges her. The kiss is long, and sweet, and deep, full of passion and love. She draws away in wonder, in awe. "No wonder all the women of the town are in love with you! Oh hurry, let us go to your chambers quickly."

With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, the king scoops her up, laughing, and carries her to the nearby cottage he purchased for them.

They disrobe separately, eager to be in each others arms. They step into the bedroom, and the smile on her face wilts, and tears fill her eyes. He is staring at her. She knows why he stares. She cannot bring herself to look in his eyes, but stares at his chest and arms. His flesh is smooth and pale, it has never seen the blazing sun for hours on end. It is beautiful skin.

"The women are right to be in love with you," she chuckles nervously. "What is there not to love?" Silence cloaks them again and her defenses begin to crumble. "Don't stare at me, my lord, please. I am dark, yes, but I am lovely too, am I not? I am dark like… like the tent curtains you have in your keep." She covers her face with her hands and begins to weep softly. In a moment he is with her, drawing her close and holding her. Just holding her as she cries into his chest. "Do not stare at me, my lord. I am darkened by the sun. My stepbrothers, they did not like me. They hated me and forced me to do their work. I was to work in their vineyards, tending the vines while they enjoyed the fruits of my labor. They did not even care that the vineyard I had bought for myself was left untended. I am sorry, please do not stare at me." She chokes through her sobs. Tenderly he leads her to sit on the bed. She leans against him as her sobs slow. When she regains her composure, she gathers her courage and looks up into his eyes.

No condemnation shadows his brow, not a single thought of reproach does she read in his honey brown eyes. Compassion radiates from his face, and it gives her new boldness, fortifying her courage.

Taking a deep breath, she says, "Tell me, my love, where does your flock graze?" He stares at her, puzzled by the strange question. "For I have wondered," she pushes on, "Why do I veil myself beside the flocks of your friends? What have I to hide?" His face widens with a great grin of joy.

And then he speaks. "I think that you are a mare from the stables of the Pharaoh," he caresses her cheek. "Strong and swift as the wind. You are laden with jewelry, and it is beautiful to behold. In fact, tomorrow I shall go to my craftsmiths and have them make you gold earrings with silver studded all over. What say you?" His eyes sparkle with merriment.

She laughs and pulls him down on the bed, under the sheets and says, "While you et your supper, I was practicing my charms for you this night. Let me match you in our game of pretend." She closes her eyes as if in deep thought, and soothes, "I think you are a package of perfume that hangs between my breasts. I think you are a bundle of fresh spring blossoms from the far vineyards on the hills."

He draws closer and they bond, their bodies becoming one in sweet unity. He gazes into her eyes and exclaims, "You are truly a beauty, even your eyes are like the doves, peaceful and soft."

"And how striking you are, my lover," she arches her brow. "Surely you are my prince charming! Is not our bed fragrant?"

"Nay, not just the bed, but the whole house! Even the fir and cedar beams smell of our love."


	2. Chapter 2

"My lord?" she rises up and looks down at him, doubtful of herself again. "Why do you think me beautiful? I am not, I am just a common rose, a lily of the valley. Why did you not choose a more—"

He lays his finger on her lips to silence her and replies, "You may be a lily, but all the other maidens are thornbushes."

She laughs, still self-conscious, but reassured that he truly loves her. "And you are like an apple tree in the forest."

Confusion crosses his features. "Where in the forest would you find an apple tree?"

"Exactly," she smiles, "You stand out from all the other men, and only you have fruit that is good to eat."

He smiles and pulls her down again. They are in each others arms, rolling and playing, enjoying the passion each feels for the other.

"Oh!" she cries out teasingly, "You've taken me to the feasting place of love, and over the seat you have written, 'Let only those who truly love sit here'. Oh feed me raisins and apples quickly, for I have starved these many days for your love."

He knows she had spoken in jest, but rises and, briefly covering himself, walks outside. Her happiness turns to grief. What has she done to upset him? But a smile creeps back on her face as she sees him through the window, plucking apples.

As he washes the apples, she weaves for him the thoughts of her mind as they were when they had lain together. "I thought to myself, 'His left arm is under my head and his right arm embraces me, he supports and comforts and protects me all at once.' And then as we drew close my mind cried, 'Oh Daughters of Jerusalem, above all else do not wake Love until the time is right.' "

_Look_, she thinks as she lies languidly in bed, _Here comes my lover, leaping like a stag, he is excited about something. Wait, where is he? There! He is behind the garden wall, looking through the window._

He gazes through at her beauty, purer than any lusty hussy he had met in the city, no matter their beauty. Hers was refined gold, reserved only for him. He clutched the lattices of the window and whispered, "Get up, get up and come! The cold, dead times are gone, the rain has stopped falling! Flowers are everywhere, singing with the doves throughout the land. And the figs, oh the sweet figs! They have come out early, just for us! Oh come my darling, out with me!"

Laughing, she rises. Dawn is just over the horizon, painting the sky a soft pink. Drawing a cloak around herself, she steps out. He catches her by surprise from the side, sweeping her from her feet and spinning her around, dancing as he sings, "Oh my dove, why do you always hide away? Show yourself to me and sing, for your voice is sweet and your face outshines the sun." She blushes at his praise and breaks free to stand. His face grows serious. He takes her hands and asks earnestly, "Where is your vineyard, the one which was let to ruin?"

"Must we go back there my lord? I do not want to remember those times," she pleads. But at his insistence, she leads him to her plot of ground. Tears stain her cheeks as she notes the foxes weaving in and out among the vines, tearing at the supple branches and destroying the fruits.

He draws her close, wraps his arms around her, and whispers in her ear, "Catch for us the foxes that ruin the vineyard." Her eyes open wide, and more tears well up in her eyes as gratitude shines from her face. He means to help her rebuild the vineyard!

She turns and kisses his hands, covering them with her thankful tears. "I am thine and you are mine, browse among these lilies until daybreak, my liege. Then go to the courts," she adds regretfully, "Go like a gazelle and rule the land as you were born to do."

Reluctantly, he releases her hands and trudges off. She bites her lip and turns to her new task; making fox traps.


	3. Chapter 3

She waits impatiently. _Surely he will come soon, the palace affairs don't take that long. She bites her lip, her half-finished braid dangling from her right shoulder._ She crosses to the window and scans the road leading to her cottage. No one comes. Worry seizes her. _What if he is hurt?_ She shrugs the thought off. _If he was hurt,_ she scolds herself, _someone would help him. He is the king after all. But it's getting dark and they may not be able to see his face…_

Determined, she finishes her braid, plaiting it with deft fingers, and draws her cloak about her shoulders, pausing only to snatch his cloak as well. _It will be cold,_ she reasons, _he will want warmth_.

She walks out, a sense of purpose bearing her up as the village quickly comes into sight. She will find her love, she will find him and bring him back with her. Her strides quicken as she passes the village square, scanning the sea of faces. _Not here,_ her heart sighs.

She passes the marketplace, where shopkeepers begin packing their wares. The scent of fresh oranges, lemons, honey, and beeswax vie for her attention, but she spurns the last-minute pleas of the merchants. _My lover! I must find my lover._ She rushes through the streets, weaving through knots of people as she moves closer to the palace.

A hand on her shoulder brings her to a halt. Her heart rises in expectation. She whirls around crying joyously, "I have found—" but the words die on her lips. A group of watchmen stand there, their eyes following the curves of her body. She swallows hard, trying to forget the stories she has heard.

"Have you seen my lover?" She asks, pulling her cloak closer. Instantly she regrets it.

"Why dear whore, here I am," oils one greasy guard, "Come, let us go in to our bed now and rejoice in our love." He grabs her arm and pulls her close as the others laugh raucously. She struggles, pushing at his chest to get away, but this only inflames him more.

A shout, a scream. The company whirls around to settle a fight that has begun in the marketplace. Seizing the opportunity, she slips away, trembling with terror. What was she thinking? She should not have come. She is alone, frightened, and more lost with every step she takes. _They will find me again if I do not leave this place._ She cries at the thought.

Running blindly through the streets, she bowls into a man. Her apologies cease as she sees his face. He gazes at her in astonishment as she buries her face in her lover's chest and weeps. His arms encircle her. She brings her tear-streaked face up to look at him and quavers, "Come, we must go."

"It is too dark to go to the cottage," he frowns, "I am sorry I was delayed, but—"

She puts her fingers on his lips and, wrapping his cloak around him, leads him through the streets, stopping at a worn, cozy house. She knocks on the door and is greeted by an old woman, her skin lined with wrinkles and creases. They embrace and exchange kisses in greeting.

Her mother accommodates what they need. She withdraws to the back of the house to rest, leaving them the bedroom and a thickly woven mat on the floor, covered in her best linens.

But he senses that she does not want to have love with him. She is shaken and frightened by something. Anger swells in him. He will destroy anything that has harmed her! But he calms himself for her sake.

Gently, he leads her to the mat and eases her down, tucking the covers around her form. He rises, but a hand on his wrist stops him. She looks at him, her eyes pleading. She still wants to be near him. He joins her under the warm sheets and she moves close to him, her face in his chest again. He wraps his arms around her, shielding her from the fears that have tormented her, protecting her from any further harm. She relaxes in his grip and her tears die away. Slowly, each slips into peaceful sleep.

Morning breaks. The blazing sun awakens the couple, and she laughs quietly.

"I will tell you a dream, my lover." she teases gently, enjoying his closeness, burrowing into his warmth. "I stood in the middle of the desert, my throat crying out for water, my skin for shade. A dust cloud approached, like a swirl of smoke. I shielded my eyes and cried, 'Who comes like a cloud of smoke, smelling of incense and myrrh?' And I beheld my lover.

"Oh you were a splendorous sight, seated in your carriage, with thirty warriors on either side, wielding their fierce swords! Nothing would harm you that night."

"What was the carriage like?" he asks, stroking her hair.

"It was the one you made yourself, from the Lebanon cedars, studded with gold and silver. Do you not remember? It was the one the village women had sewn purple upholstery for.

"And you! You outshone all your trappings. You were wearing the crown your mother crowned you with the day you wed me, the day you were first truly happy." She smiled, and her radiance stirred him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note:** This is a warning for those of you who have ignored the rating I gave this series (it is rated "M" for mature sexual themes although I have done my best to keep it from pornographic descriptions), that this chapter once again delves into a description of sex between a married couple. Yes, they are married.

His lips press against hers, his heart begins to beat faster. He pulls back and strokes her cheek, brushing away a tendril of brown hair.

"You are so beautiful, my beloved." he whispers into her ear as she trembles. "Your eyes are as gray and peaceful as doves. Your hair, it is as long as a line of goats coming down a mountain. Your teeth are smooth and white, like a flock just shorn of wool and washed clean by the mountain streams, and not one has been lost."

She smiles, thinking she is still dreaming. "Tell me more of myself," she encourages coyly.

He touches her lips with roughened fingers. "Your lips, lovely scarlet ribbons. Your temples are as full of color as pomegranates, glowing with health. Your neck is straight with slender elegance, just as my father's tower." He fingers her necklace, laughing, "And on the tower hangs thousands of shields, in memory of his brave soldiers." He gazes into her eyes, and knows her fears have gone. His hands move to her robe, opening it slowly. He gently places a hand on her breast, and she shudders in delight.

"Your breasts are like a gazelle's fawns." Even in her delight, she is confused by the comparison. But he does not stop to explain. "Until morning breaks and the darkness is chased away, I will have my fill of you, my lily. I will come to you, the mountain of sweet smelling spices and herbs." He draws her robe off entirely and gazes at her. She smiles, knowing that his gaze differs from the gazes of the watchmen. His eyes travel up her body and meet hers. "All beautiful you are, my darling." he vows softly. "There is _no_ _flaw_ in you."

"Come, come with me, do not stay far away, come away from the danger in the world." He opens his arms wide, crying, "With just a look you have stolen my heart!" She pulls his robe off, tossing it to the floor, and they are one. With each other, in each other, reveling in the wonder of love.

"Your love," he laughs, "Is more intoxicating than the oldest wine, and your scent is better than the most expensive perfume." She laughs and swats him. "No, I speak the truth!" he protests. He catches her hands and kisses them. "The words you speak, they are sweet as honey, with no sting or malice, my wife. Surely the secrets of wealth and prosperity lie under your tongue, begging to be released!"

Growing serious, he lifts her chin and stares into her face. "You are as a garden locked up." he chides gently. "Your spring is sealed and your fountain is closed, why do you lock yourself away?" Her eyes lower to the floor. "You have so much to offer!" he weeps for her brokenness. "Your garden, your soul, it is planted with the sweetest life has to offer, the spices of life itself!" He cups her face in his hands, his tears flowing. "Be unsealed, a well of flowing water giving life to all."

Holding back her own tears, she steps back and cries, "Come, winds of the world! Spread the fragrance of my garden to those who perish for lack of life." She offers a weak smile. "But the garden itself is for you. Let my lover come in and taste of its fruits."

**Note:** I do not mean to imply that her lover is asking her to give herself away to others, he is asking her to let herself trust others again, to be able to enter normal relationships with people again. At least, in this historical fiction version. That may not be the true interpretation of the Biblical passage. But then, I am no Bible scholar, and I'm certainly open to criticism if I've erred, but this is what I see in the poetry and passion of Song of Songs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Note:** I can hardly believe it's been just over a year since I started this. It's about time I got back on track and finished this. I'm going chapter by chapter as it is in the Bible, and after this one I still have three more to go. Once again, please keep in mind the Mature rating for sexual content.

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He stands, the sun illuminating his muscular torso, lined with battle scars. He pulls her close and murmurs, "I have come to my garden, my wife. I have gathered from you myrrh and spice, and have had honey, wine, and milk." He smiles. "Were my friends here, I would have them eat and drink to our honor."

She blushes. "No, none should see us." She covers his mouth with a kiss, and once again they are lost in the wonder of each other.

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She wakes, languid and drowsy. Her arm wanders over the place beside her, and she sighs. He's gone again, but she smiles. He will return, and she will be waiting.

There is a knock at the door, and her heart leaps. He is calling to her! He says, "Open for me, my love, my dove, my perfect one, for my hair is wet from the dew."

She rises. She is naked, having taken off her robe. She does not wish to re-don the garment, what use will it be? Her freshly washed feet cross the floor, and she hopes they don't collect dirt. She hears his hand on the door and her heart rises in longing. Slowly, her hand touches the doorknob, dripping with myrrh. She wonders at this, but flings open the door. She blinks, confused. There is no one there.

She looks at her hand, and there is no myrrh. She stands at the door, having wakened from a dream. Her eyes fill with tears. Determined, she snatches up her robe and wraps herself in it, darting out into the night.

The wind slices through her thin wrap, the chill creeping through every hole. She shivers, ducking her head against the wind, and calls loudly. Her voice echoes down the street. Despondent, she repeats her call again and again. Answering voices fling back at her, loud and angry for disturbing their sleep. She cringes and continues on.

Down the streets of the city, past the brothels and houses. Her feet hurt from the hardened street, and it becomes colder every moment. But her heart will not permit her to stop until she has found him. Rough hands grab her shoulders and spin her around. She gasps in fear, for it is the Watchmen from before.

They leer at her, hands groping through her thin shift. She kicks and screams, pulling back. One raises a fist and hits her stomach, driving the wind from her. Another grabs her hair and slams her head against a nearby wall. Dazed with pain, she cannot move as they take her robe, revealing her nakedness. Their eyes devour her. Bitter tears run from her eyes as they begin to draw closer.

One drops to the ground, clutching his head. Another cries out in pain, and the rest turn to see what is happening. A group of women stand there, perhaps five. They are young girls, armed with sticks and clay pots, but the Watchmen are taken by surprise. The women rush forward, driving the Watchmen back. Staggering, they turn and lumber off, supporting the more battered among them.

One woman takes off her outer garment and pulls it around her. They help her stand and lead her into a house. Still in pain, she mumbles deliriously, "I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if you find my beloved, that you tell him I am lovesick!"

They glance at her, surprised. One blurts, "What is the difference between your man and others?" Meekly she adds, "I mean, you are beautiful, but what makes your lover so special that you would have us search for him?"  
She tilts her head back and laughs. They've asked the wrong question. She could describe the aspects of him for days.

"My beloved is pale, but ruddy, chief of ten thousand men. His hair is like spun gold, rows of wavy locks, but also blacker than a raven's wing."

One woman whispers, "She is fevered and confused."

"No!" She reproves. "No, I am not confused. His eyes are like doves, peaceful and tender, like doves washed with milk and set perfectly in place. His cheeks smell of spices and herbs, and his lips, they're like lilies!"

"Calm yourself," they plead, "You were wounded!"

"Lilies, I say, dripping with myrrh! His hands are golden rods, pure and strong, set with jewels. His body is carved ivory, pale, smooth, and firm, and set with sapphires. His legs are pillars of marble, thick and strong, and set on bases of gold. His footsteps are pure like his hands! His face is like Lebanon, excellent as the cedars in size and strength. His mouth, oh the sweetness of it. I long for his mouth, I long for him. He is altogether lovely."

Although confusion laces their expressions, the women sit enraptured by her description. If there is such a man, any one of them would cut her arm off to have him.

"Yes... he is altogether lovely. Oh!"

The door flies open, and there he stands, a look of anguish on his face. He runs forward and falls to his knees, scooping her up, cradling her head tenderly.

"This is my beloved, my friend. Oh daughters of Jerusalem!" She cries, as darkness claims her vision.


	6. Chapter 6

Dreaming reality. Realizing a dream. Bits and pieces of phrases float through her mind, the women of the brothel asking, "Where is your beloved? Where can we find him for you?" Their weeping voices mixed with a warmth, embracing her.

She smiles, and speaks their secret language. _I am a garden._ "My beloved has gone to his garden," _Our bed is verdant,_ "To the beds of spices," _Your teeth..._ "To feed his flock in the gardens," _He has called me a lily of the valley,_ "And to gather lilies. I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine." She laughs in the darkness. "He feeds his flock among the lilies."

The voices titter and laugh, and she opens her eyes. She is not in the dark. The voices are not dream voices, the brothel women watch from the edge of the room, and he is leaning over her, anxiously. She reaches up to touch his face, and it is real. He catches her hand and kisses it.

In a voice thick with unshed tears, he murmurs, "Oh my love, your are as beautiful as the city Tirzah, no, Jerusalem! Just seeing you is like a soldier's awe at seeing a gigantic army, banners waving, flags streaming in the sun! Oh don't look at me," He shudders, tears slipping down his face. "Your eyes have overcome me."

He knows. He knows, and he blames himself. She pushes herself up, head spinning slightly, and leans against him. He wraps his arms around her, protectively. They share silence for a moment, letting it bathe and heal their fears. Then, quietly, he begins their game. A familiar refrain to set internal chaos in order.

"Your hair," he begins, "is like... a flock of goats, going down from Gilead." He runs his fingers through her long, silky hair. "Your teeth are like a flock of sheep that have just been washed... twin sheep! Every sheep is one of a set of twins, and not one is barren." His hands brush hair away from her face. "Pieces of pomegranate, your temples, with healthy color."

The king of the land throws back his head and cries, "Sixty queens! Eighty concubines! All the virgins of the land, I have at my command!" He lowers his head and buries his face in her hair. "But my dove, my perfect one, the only child of your mother. The favorite of your mother. All my daughters, when they met you, said you were blessed. My queens and concubines praise you among themselves." His tears wet her hair. "Who is this, who looks forward, like the morning? Beautiful as the moon, clear as the sun, and amazing as a massive army?"

Slowly, she moves her lips, forming words. "I went down to the nut garden, to see the valley blooming with life. Before I knew it, my soul had made me like the chariots of my clan."

He crooks an eyebrow, confused by her words.

She murmurs, "Let us go."

Swiftly, he gathers her in his arms and rises, walking toward the door. The women behind cry out, "Return, oh come back sometime, that we may look at you!" Startled, he turns, and realizes they are not speaking to him, but to her. They long to look on a woman of beauty who has such single-minded devotion.

She raises her head, and whispers, "What would you see in me, but conflict?"

With that, he carries her out, holding her close to warm her.

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**Note:** Good grief. I know that almost nobody reads this one, but I really have to update it more often. Only a couple more chapters to go...


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